It is totally, just, like, fucking ridiculous to pay $600 a month in rent if you don't see your apartment for months at a time, right? Right. Bad enough to pay rent at all, bad enough to pay that much money (didn't I used to live on $600 a month?), bad enough to be living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn with four windows that offer a view of only brick walls and alley trash and yuppies skulking into a greasy Indian restaurant; bad enough, yeah, but worse is being stuck in a thin-walled extended stay hotel in Warren, Michigan, with nothing to do after work but go back to the same Cass Corridor watering holes I swore off when I was nineteen, then do the six whiskey shuffle back north on I-75 to do another six whiskey shuffle from the couch to the bed and into a fitful, hotel-style five hours of sleep, knowing that home is six hundred miles away, and not knowing if bad enough is really, at the end of the day, when you really get down to it, that much better than worse.